Partners of Deduction
by Kooro
Summary: A compilation of one-shots, drabbles, fluff, angst, comedy, and whump all about the bromatic relationship between our favorite detective and doctor. Riddles anyone?
1. Sharp Turn

**Honestly, I tried to update my other fic(s) before posting this new compilation but the plot bunnies spawned and multiplied until my focus was given entirely to writing "Sherlock" fanfics. Unable to hold them in any longer, I shall finally post them.**

**Consider it an Easter and/or Passover gift to you.**

**Yes, this compilation is a lot like my "White Collar" ones, hence the similarity in titles. If you're interested, I can test your Sherlockian skills with more riddles, Like, "What am I/Who am I" riddles or something. I feel these kind of riddles have more of a Sherlock feel to them. But if you think differently, let me know. I know many of you have enjoyed my riddles in the past, so I'm wondering if you'd like me to continue them in this new compilation.**

**Ok, backstory to this first fanfic. I wanted to challenge myself to write a short fanfic for once in my life. My goal was for under 500 words (i.e. about one page). I managed to do so and am rather pleased. But let's see what you think. **

**oOoOo**

Sharp Turn

The cab rumbled through the streets of London, albeit, a little faster than its brothers due to the incentive of a generous tip as reward for reaching the destination within ten minutes.

Gray skies, gray buildings, gray people flashed by. If the passengers in the car had bothered to look out their windows at this gray morning, they would have likely found it dull and boring.

Luckily, Sherlock Holmes was delightfully distracting himself with his phone: alerting Lestrade that they were en route to the crime scene, kindly reminding Mycroft to piss off, and scrolling through news feeds and gossip in search of someone who had come into the recent ownership of a red fox.

He didn't spare a glance at his companion. It wasn't like he was doing anything worth gaining his attention anyway.

John Watson was asleep. Unable to fend off the effects of the long nights any longer, the doctor had finally succumbed to that inviting black. Slumped in his seat, arms folded loosely at his chest, he snored gently, a pleasant sound that mingled rhythmically in the background of Sherlock's musings with the rumbling of the wheels of the cab over the cobblestones.

Noting the amount of time left before the tip was lost, the cab sped up, turning roughly around a corner and ignoring an angry horn that bellowed alongside it. Sherlock was shoved up against the cab door from the momentum of the turn, his fingers never slowing as they flew across the screen of his phone. He _was_, after all, in the middle of a very important complaint to Lestrade concerning the presence of Anderson at the crime scene.

John also moved with the harsh movement of the cab and he tipped to the side, his head bumping against Sherlock's arm on its way down to land softly on his lap. John murmured a sigh and resumed his gently snoring. Sherlock casually deleted the mistakenly pressed button caused by John's impact and deftly rested his elbow, gently, atop John's shoulder to continue his text.

There was no time to correct the doctor's position. Taking the time to do so would be tedious and pointless. John would just fall asleep again anyway, whether now in the cab or in the middle of the crime scene. He needed the sleep.

Besides, Sherlock had to finish his text.

**OoOoO**

**Told ya. Short.**

**In case you are interested in a riddle but are unfamiliar with my methods, here is a brief explanation.**

**Every time I update this compilation with a new story, I add a riddle at the end, here in bold, for you to mull over. You provide your answer in a comment. When I post a new chapter, I tell you the answer of the last riddle as well as the names of the people who gave the right answer at the beginning of the fanfic, up above in bold. Right answers include the one given by the riddle as well as those that can also be true. I then give a new riddle at the bottom of the fic. My only rule is that you try not to cheat. Granted I can't enforce this but I like to test your Sherlockian prowess. **

**Shall we give it a test run? Here's an easy one.**

****When I point up it's bright, but when I point down it's dark. What am I?****

**Good luck and let me know if you want to continue this.**

**Hobey-Ho!**


	2. Bloody Wet Clothes

**The answer was a light switch. Other answer include: the sun, a sunflower, a loved one's mouth (proven by Mycroft R Holmes' evidence), and a blindfold.**

**Our very first winners of this compilation are:**

**Silver Fox Animagus  
>Imbecamiel<br>Lurker  
>Mycroft R Holmes<br>Samantha**

**Congratulations! Only five, yes, but a great start so far. This compilation is still new and more people will find it and its riddles in time. Until then, I am very happy you all enjoyed the fic and took the time to give an answer. And I am extremely pleased to see a familiar name.**

**So, I had originally planned to post a different fic today but after all the rain today, I figured this one was better suited. **

**oOoOo**

Bloody Wet Clothes

John Watson heard the door open and then slam shut. He heard the typical complaint that served as Mrs. Hudson's greeting which went ignored. He heard the soft thud of footsteps trekking unhurried up the stairs.

And then he saw Sherlock Holmes.

"Jesus, Sherlock."

The detective was thoroughly and completely soaked. His dark coat hung heavy with water and the blue scarf that had fit smugly 'round the throat had become sinewy and taut. Dark hair had lost its curl and now lay plastered flat against the forehead and neck.

Sherlock blinked trailing droplets away from his eyes and the water trickled instead down cheeks tinged red from the cold.

"John," Sherlock sniffed, perhaps to achieve a grandiose greeting but more likely to quell a running nose.

With barely a glance at the doctor, Sherlock sauntered over to his table of vials and papers, wet stains blossoming in the carpet where his feet touched. He delicately plucked one test tube out from its spot under an ultraviolet lamp. He lifted the tube up towards the light and peered at it intently.

John was standing now, his process of updating his blog forgotten. "What happened?"

"It rained," Sherlock answered boredly, pushing one hand through his dripping hair, sleeking it back to keep it out of his eyes. He replaced the test tube and lifted another than had been simmering under a typical 60W tungsten light.

"I know that," John amended, slightly offended. It was a hard fact to forget after all. It had been raining for three days straight. If it continued too much longer, John feared he would start seeing animals walking in pairs down Baker Street.

"I mean, why are you so wet? Where's your umbrella?"

"Over there," Sherlock answered, flicking a finger to a spot at the corner of the room without taking his eyes off the viscous contents in the test tube.

John followed his finger to find a black umbrella resting lightly in the corner, dry.

As John puzzled over the placement of the umbrella, Sherlock returned the test tube to its original position and moved to his chair. He sat down with a muffled squelch.

John's attention instantly swiveled back to him. "No. Don't sit down," he exclaimed.

Sherlock shot him a look; one brow arched questioningly.

"You're wet," John insisted, indicating Sherlock's soaking figure.

"Perfectly sound analysis, John," Sherlock said, bringing his steepled fingers to rest at his chin.

"You'll ruin the chair," John protested.

Sherlock made no sign that he had heard him.

"At least go change into dry clothes before you get sick."

Still no response. Sherlock's eyes were closed in thought.

"Sherlock," John pleaded.

"No time," he murmured, albeit a bit tersely.

"What?"

"I'm thinking, John," Sherlock snapped, fixing a hard glare on the doctor, "I don't have time for your useless and unwanted advice and I am rather busy determining the photochromic effects of Mrs. Burberry's lipstick so I'd be most appreciative if you would… Stop. Talking." With that said, he returned to his thoughts.

John, undeterred, pursed his lips and folded his arms haughtily over his chest. He moved to stand in front of Sherlock, his form rather menacing despite his inferior size.

"Fine, then I'll do it," he said stubbornly.

"Do what?" Sherlock sighed.

"Get you out of those bloody wet clothes."

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly and his gaze rose to fixate on John's. He seemed to take a moment to consider John's threat. Then he's eyes closed once more and he casually leaned back in his chair, completely unconcerned.

"Fine," he said, catching John off guard. "Just don't talk. You'll disturb me."

John opened his mouth to fire off a retort but snapped it shut with a huff. There was no point in arguing with Sherlock Holmes while the detective was in one of his moods.

Instead, John spun on his heel and turned his attention to the fire that had kept him warm throughout the morning. The flames had receded, the wood black and crumbling. So, John added more wood to the fire, reviving the joyous flames that eagerly accepted the fuel. The fire popped and crackled merrily, shedding more light and heat into the room.

John travelled with the rolling waves of heat back to Sherlock. The detective hadn't moved.

John targeted the sopping coat first. He pushed down Sherlock's hands and slid the top of the coat off Sherlock's shoulders, pulling it down roughly to get it out from between Sherlock's back and the back of the chair. Then he had to maneuver Sherlock's arms through the sleeves. The heavy cloth had little flexibility and clung to the jacket underneath, making the task infuriatingly more difficult than it needed to be. But Sherlock's arms complied to John's orders easily enough and soon both arms were free. Lastly, John callously jerked the bottom of the coat out from under Sherlock.

His task complete, John threw the crumbled cloth near the fireplace.

Next, the scarf was hastily unfurled and joined the coat.

John easily slipped Sherlock's jacket off, leaving the pale white undershirt. It seemed that the coat and jacket had taken the brute of the watery onslaught from the rain. The shirt was generally unharmed with only a few damp patches that would heal easily in the fire's heat.

This and the trousers were left on. John wasn't a servant after all.

With the mass of wet clothes forming a puddle at the base of the fireplace, and with Sherlock in just about the same position he had started in, John left the room to return with a towel and a thick blanket.

The blanket was momentarily placed on John's chair and the towel was thrown over Sherlock's head. Still a bit sore from Sherlock's uncouth remark, John rubbed the water out of Sherlock's hair with perhaps a little more force than was really necessary. After a minute or so of drying, the towel was pulled away to reveal a dry face and a shocking mess of tangled black hair.

The towel quickly joined the other wet clothes.

John then unfolded the blanket and draped it over Sherlock's shoulders carefully, as if in apology for his previous rough treatment of the detective. The blanket was tucked tight around Sherlock until only his head and joined hands were visible.

John left again and it was a while longer before he came back with a steaming cup of coffee. This was squeezed between Sherlock's icy fingers.

"Two sugars," John announced, the edge smoothed out of his words.

Finished, John stepped back to admire his work. Sherlock was sufficiently bundled and dry. He nodded with satisfaction.

Refilling his own cup with the hot drink, minus the sugar, John returned to his computer, typing away in time with the beat of the rain pattering against the windows.

When his changes had been saved, John closed his laptop and looked up at Sherlock.

The detective was staring into the fire, both hands clasped around his coffee cup as he sipped it. The cold seemed to have visibly thawed out of the tall man's body and the minute shaking of his shoulders that he had likely hoped John had overlooked, had stopped.

John smiled.

"Better?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. Well, he did expect a glare and a complaint that he had disturbed Sherlock's thoughts.

To his surprise, Sherlock returned his smile. "Much."

**OoOoO**

**I'm not entirely thrilled with the ending but it will do. I hope you liked it and, if you are getting all this rain too, I hope you are staying warm and dry. Don't get sick!**

**So, this week's riddle will be another easy one in case some new readers want to take a stab at it. It also had a variety of possible answers so don't be afraid to get creative with your answer. Good luck.**

****I have eyes yet cannot see. What am I?****

**Thank you as always for reading and your comments are most appreciated. **

**Hobey-Ho**


	3. Remedy

**The answers are a needle, potato, and hurricane. Another offered answer is a doll, or I suppose any kind of toy with plastic/painted eyes. Voting…? (because Mycroft R Holmes does have a bit of a point)**

**This week's winners are: **

**piksie-nana  
>Mycroft R Holmes<br>ihavenocluewhattoname  
>Lurker<br>Everlasting Dawn of Eternity  
>Blue Dragon of Rivendell<br>AnonAnon  
>Kay8abc<br>LogicandWonderland**

**See, what'd I tell ya. Knew I'd get some more Sherlockians in time. And you all had the right answers. Well done and keep up the good work. **

**Sorry about posting late by the way. I tried for Friday but I was distracted by Portal 2. Heard of it? Great – no – fantastic!game. Highly recommend it. Anyway, this fic was another challenge for me to write something about 500 words. Enjoy.**

**oOoOo**

Remedy

Memories haunted him. Sherlock knew that. It was painfully obvious.

Awake, they came in glimpses and flashes: a splash of blood; perhaps the hallucination of a shadowed figure sprawled on the ground; the flash of a fired gun. Consequently, sweat beaded the brow, breath was hitched; a stumble in the stride.

Asleep, their power doubled and denied the relief of escape by distraction. The bed sheets whispered softly as legs thrashed; hands grasped at air. Quickened breaths echoed in the quiet of the night, often turned to distressed whimpers.

The memories of war, of battle, of death clung to him like a second layer of skin, imbedded in both body and mind, constricting and twisting; never letting go. The action of war was missed but the images produced by it were certainly not.

Sherlock Holmes saw all of this; knew when a memory resurfaced. At night, he saw the memories turn to nightmares, heard the desperate pleas from the other room, and he knew that John Watson was being haunted by the past.

Tonight was particularly bad. John's moans echoed eerily around the otherwise silent flat. Sherlock blinked, concentration lost and he lifted his eyes to where his friend's room resided above him. Shuffling trickled through the floor and Sherlock's mind wandered away from his deductions to envision the tormented form of the doctor.

He knew his assumptions would be correct. He had walked in on one of John's nightmares several times before, and each time brought on a fresh and foreign wave of sorrow with the aftertaste of concern. He disliked those gentle features pinched and pale with dread and fear; that crooked smile lost, turned hard and thin.

Sherlock had his own remedy for this and kept it close by for such an occasion.

Deftly, he raised his violin from the floor and delicately placed the bottom under his chin, carefully lowering the bow onto the taut strings. He closed his eyes.

A sharp screech blasted away the peaceful calm, ringing in the still air. It was shortly followed by a horrible scratch and then a long shrieking wail that would have set anyone's teeth on edge.

There was a thud and a loud curse from the room above and then the crack of a door flying open followed by the thundering of feet pounding down the stairs. And then a rather haggard looking John Watson was glaring daggers at Sherlock with bright simmering eyes that contrasted fascinatingly against the shadows that yawned beneath them.

He opened his mouth to speak, or likely, to yell, but was cut off by a rather unpleasant keen of the violin strings. Seeing no point and realizing he couldn't get a word in anyway, John shook his head darkly and marched back up the stairs. A moment later, the door slammed shut; feet thundered back to bed.

Sherlock opened one eye to glance up at the now silent room above him and flicked the bow up into the air, ending his serenade. His mission complete, the violin was lovingly replaced and he returned his focus to the facts.

**OoOoO**

**I know there are fanfics out there with a similar plot of a nightmare-inflicted John but these words are my own and I hope I don't appear to be copying anyone. Great minds just think alike. **

**On to the riddle then.**

****Take off my skin – I won't cry. But you will. What am I?****

**Semi-easy perhaps. Getting a bit harder, yes? Good luck.**

**Hobey-Ho**


	4. Walnuts

**The answer is an onion. And, I guess, a snake. You try to help it shed its skin and it bites you. Ungrateful.**

**Congrats to all our winners:**

**hollowgirl15  
>jojobeans<br>SillyMongoose  
>LogicandWonderland<br>sneakysnakes  
>Ripplerose<br>Imbecamiel  
>Blue Dragon of Rivendell<br>Silver Fox Animagus  
>ihavenocluewhattoname<br>Mycroft R Holmes  
>Lurker<br>Kay8abc  
>DrPaz (who has been a Sherlockian for over 30 years, if I might add)<strong>

**Well done to you all, even the people who might have said the answer in the confines of their own mind. **

**How about another chapter as your reward?**

**oOoOo**

Walnuts

"Walnuts."

Sherlock Holmes blinked with a start as his consciousness withdrew from his Mind Palace and returned to the living world.

"That's how he did it John," he continued, reaching for his phone to send his conclusion to Lestrade. "Haster smuggled the gems out of the city in walnuts. And that's how poor Mrs. Bird was convicted. She had no idea her purchase of walnuts contained a dozen priceless jewels."

Sherlock sent the text message that provided the evidence that would result in the release of the imprisoned Mrs. Bird and the capture of Haster. He then started a new text to his many connections to keep a look out for a jewel smuggler on the run. Twice in one night, Sherlock hoped to show-up Lestrade. It always made a case more amusing when a single man and his posse of the homeless captured a criminal before the police could.

"And don't bother asking how a bag of walnuts harboring jewels managed to get into the hands of an elderly woman. Surely even you can deduce the answer to such a simple question. "

The second text was sent.

And there was still no reply from Sherlock's friend.

"John?"

At last, Sherlock looked up from his phone. He was alone. The fire had burned down in the fireplace and all the lights had been turned off save the one Sherlock sat under: its artificial light wrapping the room of the flat John and Sherlock shared in a dim glow that made the shadows of the furniture stretch out towards the walls.

A blanket had somehow made it around his shoulders and judging by the amount of warmth it had collected from Sherlock's body, it had been there for at least half an hour. This was grabbed at Sherlock's chest to keep it around him as he straightened.

"John?" Sherlock asked again, looking around.

His eyes landed on a cup of coffee long gone cold and a note sitting on the coffee table before him. The chair creaked under the shift of weight as Sherlock reached for the note.

_Sherlock_

_I've gone to bed. When you're done playing in your "Mind Palace," I suggest you do the same.  
>PS: For God's sake, drink something. You need to hydrate. Doctor's orders.<br>JW_

"'Playing' indeed," Sherlock snorted, tossing the note aside.

He stood in a huff but paused and dipped down to retrieve the cup of coffee. He took a sip as he made his way to his room on bare feet, the end of the blanket trailing silently on the ground after him.

It was cold; the flavor stale.

If he had wanted, he could have made himself a fresh pot of coffee rather than drink the congealing slosh in his cup. But he didn't.

John always made better coffee and always made it exactly to Sherlock's liking.

Besides, one should never argue with his doctor.

**OoOoO**

**Yes, another short one. Couldn't resist the challenge: fitting one story into only a page of words. And some people can do this all the time. A tip of the proverbial hat to you.**

**I hope you enjoyed it. **

**Not much else to say expect that I have midterms and essay due soon so I might have to skip a week. We'll see. **

**To preoccupy you til then (or at least for a few minutes), here is your riddle.**

********By Moon or by Sun, I shall be found. Yet I am undone, if there's no light around. What am I?****

**Hopefully still in the category of "semi-easy." Good luck and I can't wait to see what answer(s) you have.**

**Hobey-Ho**


	5. Smile

**I know I said I might skip a week. It was not my intention to skip more. Terribly sorry about that. But here's an update to make up for it.**

**First, the answer is a shadow and I'll count a reflection, a cat (specifically it eyes) and the sky and ground too. Oh, and the letter N. Thanks to Elizabeth Mary Masen for that one.**

**And our winners are…**

**Blue Dragon of Rivendell  
>hollowgirl15<br>****Ripplerose (in regards to the Vashta Nerada, I suggest you stay out of libraries cause those little guys can exist in the light and dark. Allons-y!)**  
><strong>ihavenocluewhattoname<strong>  
><strong>Elizabeth Mary Masen<strong>  
><strong>Silver Fox Animagus<strong>  
><strong>Kay8abc<strong>  
><strong>LagicandWonderland<strong>  
><strong>Imbecamiel<strong>  
><strong>Lurker<strong>  
><strong>Mycroft R Holmes<strong>  
><strong>drpaz<strong>

**OoOoO**

Smile

There is nothing special about a smile.

It is just a movement of facial muscles. The Levator Anguli Oris intermingles with the Zyomaticus to draw the corners of the mouth laterally and superiorly.

How is it that a simple curvature of the lips can be interpreted to mean so much? How can a muscle possibly display warmth? Is not just used to convey pride at solving a problem and joy at finding something exciting to do, or just to mock and taunt an inferior mind?

A smile is a muscle. It is a simple fact.

So how is it that people – boring, ordinary people – get it into their funny little heads that a smile is contagious? What is contagious about muscular movement? If one person raised his arm, would another follow suit? If one person bent his knee or wiggled his toes, would another mimic him? Is it not the same thing: the movement of a muscle?

But no, only a smile seems to be contagious; to elicit a similar response in someone other than the subject.

Why?

Sherlock Holmes thought hard on the subject. When he was bored, he often returned to this question that had left him stymied for years to pass the time and to possibly, finally, find an answer.

But he still had no avail.

He tapped his foot impatiently; his steepled fingers flush against lips pursed in thought.

How was it that the answer to the question eluded him so efficiently? He was a genius, god damn it! Surely he could think of some explanation.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, his thoughts crumbling as his focus was lost, and he looked up irritably at the interruption.

"It's about time," John Watson said. "I've been calling you for five minutes."

"Why?" Sherlock asked curtly.

"You need to eat something." John placed a plate of cooked meat and fresh vegetables onto the coffee table in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed with great agitation. "I regret to inform you that there are other circumstances that require my attention more than a disturbance from you," he said testily, closing his eyes to block out the distraction of a suddenly cross doctor standing before him.

"Oh no you don't," John snapped, pushing Sherlock's hands down. The detective sighed and opened his eyes again to meet the glare that refused to be ignored. "You haven't eaten a thing since the start of that case. Now that you've solved it, you have no excuse not to."

"I'm thinking."

"It can wait."

"As can this," Sherlock said, gesturing to the food.

"No. It can't." John countered through clenched teeth. "I respect your choice not to eat during a case. But, in return, I expect you to respect my order to eat afterwards." John glared at Sherlock's unmoving gaze.

"I'm sorry that your expectations won't be met," Sherlock said instead, returned his joined hands to his chin.

John sighed heavily and, with a muttered curse, he spun on his heel and started for the door.

"John," Sherlock called after him.

"What?" John retorted sharply.

Sherlock was watching him intently from over his fingertips. "Smile," he deadpanned.

"What?" The word had lost its edge and opted for a quizzical tone.

"Smile."

John screwed up his features in a confused expression Sherlock was familiar with. "Why?" Now suspicion colored the word.

"For an experiment."

"Wait. So you want me to smile. Right now. Right after you have just given me a perfectly valid reason not to."

"As soon as possible would be most appreciated."

John stared at Sherlock as if the detective had just recited the National Anthem of the United Kingdom in German. Though Sherlock was perfectly capable, he found John's confusion painfully time consuming and pointless. John didn't need to comprehend the order to perform it. All Sherlock wanted was for him to smile.

"Well?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Sorry. It's a little hard to find the inspiration at the moment," John explained pointedly.

Sherlock threw up his hands with a huff of exasperation. "A smile. I just want you to smile. For god's sake, it's not like I'm asking you to give me the coordinates of the Kola Superdeep Borehole."

"Not helping," John noted sourly.

"Fine. Then think of something that will."

John searched Sherlock's annoyed expression and then his gaze drifted away in thought. Slowly, his lips curved up in a smile.

Sherlock quickly examined the smile: a contraction of the zygomatic muscles of the cheek and eye; crow's feet formed. Crow's feet indicate that the smile is genuine. A Duchene smile, then. One of sincerity. John was truly happy in the thought he had conjured. But Sherlock did not feel the desire to imitate the movement.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, honestly curious.

John's gaze returned to Sherlock, his smile gentle.

"You," he answered. Sherlock gave a start.

"The first time I met you and you deduced everything about my sister by just looking at my phone in that pompous arrogant way you do. And me: how amazed I was of you."

The smile broadened and, dare he think it, grew warm.

"Yes, well thank you. That is all," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave as he eased back into his chair.

John tilted his head curiously at him again but didn't push the subject.

"Glad I could help. Now will you eat?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied obediently.

John smiled, actually at him and not at the memory, and Sherlock found himself returning the gesture this time. Then John walked out.

Curious. Now that he thought about it, Sherlock usually returned John's smiles.

Maybe smiles weren't anything special. But John Watson's were.

**oOoOo**

**I figured Sherlock would question something like this. Thanks to Wikipedia for my research materials on which muscles contribute to the movement of a smile.**

**I hope you liked it. Enough so that my previous grievance might be forgiven?**

**Not much to say in this post either except now that midterms and those essays are done, I now have to prepare for finals and final essays. Whoo… Luckily that will go by quickly enough and then I'll have to summer to write.**

**So, on to your riddle.**

********You use me between your head and your toes, the more I work the thinner I grow. What am I?** **

**As always, good luck to you.**

**Hobey-Ho**


	6. Bad Case of Spots

**Jeez, I'm gone for – what? – about a month and Fanfiction makes all these changes and updates without me. Not to mention the messages from my readers that have accumulated a bit. Warn a girl, will ya?**

**Anyway, the answer is a bar of soap, the stomach/waistline and (a stretch but it works) muscles and a belt**

**Here are our winners!**

**Ripplerose  
>Blue Dragon of Rivendell<br>Kirsten  
>Silver Fox Animagus<br>hollowgirl15  
>Lurker<br>The Mad Squirrel  
>LogicAndWonderland<br>Mycroft R Holmes  
>Kay8abc<br>Dr Paz**

**Sorry for the wait, by the way. I had finals, and then my sister graduated followed by those festivities, and I'm playing Heavy Rain, and I just never got around to posting. Sorry. But summer is here now so I'll have more time to write and post. **

**To make up for the wait I put you through (again), I shall give you WHUMP!**

**(And, I know, weird title, but I didn't know what to title it and then this one just popped into my head so I wrote it down without hesitation. It works I guess.)**

**oOoOo**

Bad Case of Spots

He found himself on the ground, head pounding, ears ringing; eyes refusing to focus.

He was aware that he was on the ground, trying to get his hands and feet under him. He could dimly make out the cobbled road beneath him but couldn't feel the rough stone or the minute sting of the pebbles clinging to his palm.

All he could feel was the stabbing pain at the back of his head that made his vision swim with spots and his ears buzz with static.

He was grateful then when strong hands grabbed the font of his coat and hauled him to his feet. He looked up unsteadily at his helper, blinking those damned spots away so that he could see the face before him.

He frowned.

Those obsidian eyes were foreign to him as was the shade of color that pigmented the skin. Most disconcerting of all was the mouth: twisted in a cruel sneer under the prickle of an upper lip that needed a shave.

His brow knitted in confusion as he tried to place the face. He lifted his hands to shakily grip the man's arms so that he could get his feet steady under him.

He was not fast enough, however, as one hand drew back from its purchase in Sherlock Holmes' coat and formed a fist. Sherlock's mouth opened on its own accord, although, whether it was to taunt or protest, he didn't know.

The strike came anyway.

Hard knuckles crashed into his jaw and sent him spiraling back to the ground. It went black for a moment and his head screamed; the buzzing in his ears escalated to a dull roar. He pried his eyes open to find that the spots had reformed their ranks.

This time he could not move. Nothing responded to the signals he sent to do so. All he could do was lie there, slack-jawed; tasting the sickly sweet bite of metal on his tongue and stare at the foreign man that sauntered into view.

That sneer was still in place, nagging at Sherlock to remember: remember who the man was, why he was there, and how Sherlock had managed to find himself sprawled on the ground for a second time that day.

The man's sneer turned malicious as he plucked off the ground, a rusted crowbar that had been discarded and forgotten long ago, perhaps after it had been used to break into a house or car. Sherlock squinted at it, testing his own deducting ability to gauge how damaged his head was.

Medium of length and thick with an angled head. If he could see the pronged head more clearly without the interference of the dancing spots, he'd have been able to determine just what the crowbar had been used for. He blinked with growing dread as he realized he needn't have bothered trying to deduce what the bar _had _been used for and instead needed to be worried about what it _would_ be used for.

The man loomed closer, waving the crowbar tauntingly at Sherlock. He then crouched down at the head of the felled detective. He lifted the bar, seeming to revel in the sight of Sherlock's gaze tracking the bar's ascent over his head. The bar wavered at its peak in the air and Sherlock's eyes widened reflexively as realization slowly dawned.

What must go up must come down. And Sherlock's head was in the bar's downward trajectory.

His body started to struggle; tried to move in order to preserve itself. But the man reached out his free hand and pinned Sherlock against the ground by placing an iron grip around the detective's neck, pinching Sherlock's chin between his thumb and forefinger to force Sherlock to look at the crowbar. He couldn't move. And he found little comfort in concluding that the bar had indeed been used to pry a window from its wooden frame.

Sherlock shut his eyes tight, but when nothing happened, he opened then again.

The crowbar was gone. And so was the man.

Sherlock let out a held breath and found that the weight on his neck had also been removed.

Movement to his left attracted his attention and Sherlock's head tipped to the side to see what it was. He feared it was the threat.

Instead, he saw two men now, struggling in a mess of tangled limbs on the ground. The new stranger had one hand on the bar and the other tearing at the arm around his throat. The bar was pried free and used against its owner. The men separated, breathing heavily.

The man that had nearly succeeded in killing Sherlock stood a few feet away, nursing a cut on his brow and glaring at the newcomer (strangely familiar that one) who stood with his back to Sherlock, purposefully keeping himself between the detective and the threat.

Sherlock's savior was a man of inferior height and superior age with cropped hair hinting at a previous military profession. He gripped the bar with scraped and bloodied fingers before tossing it aside. Sherlock smiled at that. This man had honor, believing in a fair fight. Foolish.

"Back down, Tyler," the shorter man advised, open palms facing the threat. He did, however, refuse to release his position in front of Sherlock.

The threat, Tyler was his name it seemed, finished inspecting his wounds and faced the shorter man with seething malice. The military man met his stance with raised fists.

Then the two collided.

The movement was too disorienting for Sherlock. He let his eyes drift close as the sounds of grunts and the hollow thud of fists hitting exposed skin echoed around him.

Then the solid impact of a body hitting the ground.

Sherlock forced his eyes to open. There, standing triumphant over Tyler's crumbled form, was Sherlock's savior. The man turned to face Sherlock, gasping painfully; lips flecked with blood. A dark stain ebbed from his nose but this was casually wiped away as the familiar stranger staggered to Sherlock, a bit of a limp in his right leg. The man fell to his knees beside the detective in the same spot where Tyler had been ready to kill him.

But there was no malice in this man's eyes. Only anxiety, and relief.

"Sherlock," the man breathed, and the amnesia was cured.

"John," Sherlock greeted, memories returned at the sight of a familiar voice to go with the face.

A ghost of a smile graced John's lips as he slipped out of his jumper and tucked it under Sherlock's head. The padding was a relief from the hard ground that did little to help his throbbing headache.

"You're late," Sherlock deadpanned.

"You run too fast," John countered with a matched tone, observing the state of the detective.

Sherlock chuckled, cringing slightly from the movement.

John fingers extended to inspect the bruise on Sherlock's swollen cheek and the knot at the back of his head. Sherlock's eyes likewise examined the doctor's battered nose, bloodied lip, and blossoming bruises on John's face.

"Tyler?" he asked softly.

"Taking a nap," John replied curtly. "How are you feeling?"

"Head hurts," Sherlock answered with a huff as if the fact mattered little; a passing thought.

"That's because you were hit with a bloody crowbar." John explained.

Ah, so that crowbar had been used against him once before. Funny, he didn't remember that part at all.

"I'm surprised you're still conscious actually."

"No easy feat, I assure you," Sherlock said, the words tripping slightly.

John's hands continued their tentative examination as he shifted his focus away from Sherlock's face. Though John's attention had changed, Sherlock's remained focused.

"You're bleeding."

John's smile was wry. "Another brilliant deduction from the great Sherlock Holmes. I expected nothing less."

"I'm sorry."

John paused. "No," he said softly. "I'm sorry. If I were here sooner, I could have prevented this."

Their inspection done, one hand moved to John's lap while the other returned to Sherlock's face. He absently rubbed a thumb over the color on Sherlock's jawline.

"Not your fault," Sherlock murmured.

"No…" John said thoughtfully, eyes looking up as the sound of sirens disturbed the quiet afternoon. "No, you're right. It's yours."

"Pardon?"

"Can you stand?" John interrupted.

"Yes, but –"

"Good. We need to get you to Lestrade."

He pulled Sherlock up into a sitting position. "Hold this," he ordered, shoving his jumper into Sherlock's stunned hands.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John moved first, throwing Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and rising to his feet stiffly, bringing Sherlock up with him. Sherlock floundered for a moment until he managed to get his feet steady under him; his weight instantly shifting to John as the smaller man kept him upright.

"Small steps now," John said gently. "Close your eyes if that helps. Lestrade is just around the corner.

"Oh I feel better already," Sherlock grunted, eyes closed to ward off the unsettling sight of the upheaval of the ground under his feet.

"Be nice. He'll take you to the hospital where they can properly fix you up."

"I don't need a hospital, John. I already have my doctor."

John grunted in disagreement but said nothing more. Sherlock could have even sworn he saw a light smile lift up a corner of the doctor's mouth.

"Although," Sherlock continued, closing his eyes once more, "you may need to go to the hospital. You seem to be suffering from a head injury too."

"What? No. Why?"

"You seem to be under the impression that it is my fault I was attacked. Clearly a blow to your frontal lobe has disrupted your thought process."

"My thought process is fine, thank you," John replied dryly. "And I stand by what I said."

"Do explain."

"I told you," John said, waving an arm at Lestrade and the approaching paramedics. "You run too bloody fast."

**OoOoO**

**How was that? Hope it was worth the wait. I'll try to be better. It's a condition I tell you.**

**Before I get to your riddle, let me ask you this: anyone else excited for the return of White Collar? I know Suits is back and all, but it doesn't quite compare. Right then, don't need to fangirl here. Let's get right on to that riddle.**

****I have roads without cars, forests without trees, and cities without houses. What am I?****

**Good luck and Hobey-Ho**


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